


Bundle of fucking joy: part one

by pan_fro



Series: KNOC-U-UP [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Baby Yevgeny Milkovich, Gen, Humor, Mpreg, Svetlana/Her Hammer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-26 17:21:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15667779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pan_fro/pseuds/pan_fro
Summary: *well, fuck*me @ this summary box





	Bundle of fucking joy: part one

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. I apologize for the enormous spacing. In the words of the great Hayley Kiyoko, I let it be.

Mickey's reaching up to pull down the toilet handle when Svetlana appears in the doorway.  She  gently  bounces Yevgeny on her hip, watching as he heaves himself up from the floor and walks towards the sink . He turns on the faucet, leaning down to allow the water to pool into his mouth. When he stands to his full height, he's met with Svetlana's annoyed gaze in reflection of the mirror.

 

 

"Can I fucking help you?", Mickey garbles around a mouth of water before spitting into the sink.

 

Svetlana rolls her eyes, releasing a tired sigh, "This third week you throw up in toilet. You go to clinic."

 

Mickey snorts, "Fuck off," wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. Walking past her out of the bathroom and towards the kitchen.

 

Svetlana follows after him, her voice clipped as she persists, "Go. Don't be stupid fuck." 

 

He snaps, yanking the refrigerator open, "Aye! What did I  just  fucking say?"

 

She huffs, situating Yevgeny unto her other hip, "I don't know, I teach ears to block out things stupid fucking idiots say."

 

"If I'm such a stupid fucking idiot why do you give a shit if I go or not?"

 

"You can't be father to Yevgeny if you are dead."

 

Mickey sighs, pinching the bridge of his noise. Aggravation deflating at the subtle softness in her voice, "I'm not dying, Svet."

 

"How you know? You doctor?"

 

"Because I've  been shot  at and  brutally  beaten my entire life, and I'm still fucking standing here. I may never fucking die."

 

Just  as he expected, his words do nothing to appease Svetlana. He closes the refrigerator door and walks over to her, holding his hands out for the toddler in her arms. Yevgeny recognizes the gesture, waving his little arms in pursuit of Mickey.

 

"He ate yet?", He asks with a soft smile as Svetlana passes Yevgeny to him, adjusting the child to rest on his hip.

 

She shakes her head, watching him walk towards the cabinets, before leaving to go into her room. Mickey retrieves a plastic container of oatmeal, setting it on the counter. He walks over to the dining table where Yevgeny's high chair resides. Setting him into the chair and minding his fingers before sliding the tray over his pudgy legs.

 

He sets a pot of water to boil on the stove. Looking up when Svetlana clears her throat. The woman having reentered the room dressed in a robe with a small bag clutched in her hands, "I go look for job today. You find someone to watch Yevgeny while you are at clinic."

 

Mickey groans in annoyance, "Jesus fuckin'- will you hop off my dick?"

 

"You go to clinic or I bash your stupid head with hammer!", She shouts back before shutting the bathroom door.

 

Mickey winces, feeling the beginnings of a headache when he hears the sound of tapping on plastic. He looks over to see Yevgeny, gaze leveled at his father. His mouth hanging open, exposing a gash of bright pink gums, as he babbles  pointedly  in command.

 

Mickey sighs, walking back into the kitchen, "Alright, alright, keep it in your pampers."

* * *

Mickey was at a complete loss over who he could get to watch the child while he went to the fucking clinic. Svetlana had left several minutes ago. Pressing kisses to their cheeks and, once again, promising injury to Mickey if he didn't attend the clinic. He was beyond annoyed. Now forced to work an impromptu ghetto doctor's visit into his own schedule of job searching.

 

 

After coming home from giving birth, Svetlana had  simply  declared, 'vacation'. The money from her surrogacy and whatever illegal shit Iggy had done doing well to pay the bills and for food. But they all knew better than to depend on that for too long.

 

Things hadn't gone as  smoothly  for Mickey. In the aftermath of a certain fucked up situation, he had intended to fall into a drunken daze. But instead, he suffered from bouts of nausea. Finding even the mere thought of a beer or even a cigarette nauseating.

 

He's pulled from his thoughts by Yevgeny's babbled requests for more oatmeal. Mickey smirks, dipping the spoon into the bowl, "Bossy little fucker today, huh?" Mickey watches his son eat, taking in the light speckling of food around his mouth and on his cheeks. Flashes of a wide grin and wild, bright red hair appear in his mind. Long,  lightly  freckled limbs moving theatrically through the air, a spoon dangling from their grip, imitating an airplane. He blinks them away almost immediately. Looking down to notice that the bowl is empty.

 

-

 

Iggy  slowly  regains consciousness after the fifth harsh rap on the door. Stumbling  severely  as he drags himself up and out of his bed, almost tripping on the sheets strewn on the floor.

 

"What the fuck, man?"

 

He rips the door open to see Mickey standing there, mid knock, a wide eyed Yevgeny resting on his hip.

 

"I need to go somewhere, can you not be high for at least four hours?"

 

Iggy's eyes go wide at his brother's absurdity, "Bitch! Four fucking hours?"

 

Mickey sighs, letting his eyes shut in attempt to not go the fuck off, "I got shit to do, Iggy. Can you be useful for one fucking day?"

 

Groaning, Iggy rubs his palms into his eyes, "Can't the fucking redhead do it?"

 

The look on Mickey's face is enough to make Iggy flinch as he remembers some very vital information, "Oh, yeah. Sorry, bro."

 

They stand there in silence. Mickey plotting different scenarios of Iggy's murder for the duration of it.

 

Iggy sighs, rubbing roughly at his eyes before reaching out to take Yevgeny into his arms, "I got em'. Go take care of your shit."

 

Mickey  carefully  hands Yevgeny to Iggy, making sure his entire body in his hold. The toddler's hand still residing  firmly  in his grip as he leveled a stern look at his brother.

 

"Anything happens to him, Iggy..."

 

Iggy smacks his teeth, shooing him with his free hand, "You and the commie will be on my ass. I know, fuck off."

 

Mickey nods. Brushing his thumb across the tiny knuckles before walking off to his room.

* * *

 

The clinic is packed, just as he expected. The waiting room filled with people with an assortment of injuries, women, and children. He rolls his eyes and internally curses Svetlana's name as he walks over to the front desk to sign in. An hour passes after he takes a seat, still in awe that it was unoccupied in the first place. His mind drifting to the last time he was in a setting such as this. That waiting room had been a lot quieter, everyone there either too ashamed or too spaced out to carry on casual conversation. He remembers being so nervous, repeatedly sneaking glances at...

Mickey shakes his head, trying to suppress the acidic flow of the emotions he had felt that day. Those, along with the reason he was there- shit, the greater half of the year- is in the past. He begins to really observe his surroundings, a little boy captivating his attention. He couldn't have been more than five, his shaggy hair standing wildly atop his head, dried blood caked around his nose. The slender bone of it obviously broken, the fractured cartilage pushing against his skin. He resembles the woman beside him, who's head rests in her palms. Her elbows resting atop her shaking knees. The sight is immensely familiar, he tries to think back to the first broken nose Terry ever gave him. His memories fade out around the age of six, for knocking over his fucking beer. He remembers how hard and loud he had cried, his mother stumbling over to his small figure curled up on the wooden floor. Her pupils enormous, threatening to overcome the icy cobalt of her eyes as she scooped him up into her shaking arms and began singing to him in a low and soothing voice. His cries had softened to a feeble sniffle, the pain of his injury distancing itself from his mind only to rapidly return when his mother, Daria, grips his nose and snaps it into the place. Mickey stares at the kid, feeling guilty that he doesn't really feel any sadness or anger. It's just this mixture of numbness and uncomfort. He wants to stop looking. And he finally does when their eyes meet, the room around him strangely tense; quiet. Mickey looks around and realizes that everyone is looking at him, stares varying from expectant to... fearful? His eyes wander to the woman sitting behind the receptionist desk, clad in bland, purple scrubs. Her eyes wide and mouth slightly gape after having apparently (and understandably) stumbling over the surname, Milkovich. Mickey sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose before standing up and walking to the double doors that lead to the examination rooms. 

-

Mickey doesn't actually begin to worry about his well being until he's sitting atop the worn exam table, awaiting a physician. He begins thinking about the fact that it isn't normal to constantly throw up for three weeks or to develop such a deep distaste for things you constantly consume an rather enjoy. His mind wanders to Svetlana and how adamant and scared she'd been. He's known her for a year and a half, maybe two and he can only recall one time when she's been afraid. When Yevgeny was taken. Mickey doesn't know how to fully process the turn their relationship has taken. They went from downright despising each other to being decent co-parents. They talk a lot more and the conversations don't always center around Yevgeny or financial needs anymore. He doesn't know if he can call her a friend because he's never really had a friend besides ...

But the fact that she's concerned about him, that she confronted him about something that he was going to continue ignoring has him skittish as all hell. 

Then, the door opens and a moderately tall and dark skinned woman dressed smartly in a purple wool sweater and slacks underneath her lab coat enters. The deep brunette coils of her hair glistening in the light from ample product, a warm smile on her face.

"Good," She lifts her head to check the clock hanging on the wall behind him, "afternoon, Mr. Milkovich. I'm Dr. Smith and I'll be your physician for today. How are you feeling?"

"Mickey, and fine, I guess."

"Well, Mickey, we wouldn't be here if we were fine, hm?"

He nods, conceding, "I've been throwing up, like a fuckton. But I've also been eating like crazy, and smokes and beer make me fucking sick."

Smith nods, processing the information and looking down to peer at the folder she entered the room with, "Well, we don't have much of anything on your file, besides a gun shot wound to your leg as a result of theft?"

Mickey scoffs, reaching back to scratch as his neck, "Theft. It was a fucking snickers bar and that sure as fuck wasn't what that pedo fucker shot me over."

Her eyes widen at the information, before she nods and settles into the stool near the counter, "Um, okay, since we don't have any information of medical conditions, we're gonna have to run through an array of questions."

He nods, shifting in his seat, "Shoot."

She stands and walks over to him, withdrawing a slender flashlight from her coat pocket, "Can you widen your eyes, please?"

He obeys, suppressing the urge to ask her to back the fuck up at the brightness of the light. She nods and then the flashlight clicks off. Smith proceeds to take his temperature and other vitals. Raising up his shirt, to press a stethoscope to his back.

"Have you suffered any headaches or pain around your eyes?"

"No."

"Fever? Chills? Any rashes?"

"Nope."

"Fits of coughing? Sore or hoarse throat?"

"No."

"Okay, any cramps? Pain within your abdominal area or aches within your muscles or pain within your joints"

"No."

"Okay, you don't check off with any symptoms for any viral infections. Um, you don't have a lack of appetite. Are the only odors that are causing you discomfort, beer and cigarettes?"

Mickey nods, "Yeah."

Smith cuts her eyes in thought, before speaking again, "Have you had any cravings? Or mood swings? Lower back pain?"

When Mickey nods once more, her eyes drift downward to her clothed stomach and then quickly back up to his face.

"Um, Mickey, when did you ever receive any health assessments at school during grade eight to ten?"

Mickey snorts, lightly chuckling, "Even if I had stayed in school long enough to be a sophomore, let enough teachers get bit or their ass beat and they don't even come near us. The fucking gym teacher would lock himself in his office."

Smith releases an awkward chuckle, before clearing her throat, "The assessment you should've received would've determined if you're a carrier or not."

His eyebrows raise exceptionally high, almost connecting with his hairline when he begins to sputter, "A f-fucking c-carrier? I thought that shit was rare."

She nods, "It is. Less than one percent of America's male population is born with carrier status."

His head nearly bursts at the information, "Look, no, okay? I can't be- I'm not-no, just, fucking no!"

Smith stands, extending her arms in attempt to calm the young man, "I understand you're panicking right now, that's a very valid and reasonable reaction to what you've just been told. But you should also remember, we don't know if pregnancy-"

Mickey groans, roughly rubbing at his eyes to wake himself the fuck up, _because no. No, fucking thank you. Why?_

"-is exactly what your condition is at this time. We'll draw some blood and discuss your options after we receive the results, okay?"

* * *

Mickey's sent home with a coat pocket of three pamphlets. 

_'What to Expect When You're Expecting: Male Carrier Edition'_

_'So You've Ruined Your Life? | Pregnancy and your options: For the impoverished'_

_'Adoption or Abortion | The neutral pamphlet'_


End file.
